


Heartache

by sbdrag



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sbdrag/pseuds/sbdrag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story where there a looot of angst.</p><p>Humanstuck AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartache

He groans, panting as the boy above him bites his shoulder. He means to draw blood, and he does. Karkat breathing is labored; he hates this. Gamzee continues pounding into him, abusing his already battered body. Karkat can’t remember what time it is, but it feels like he’s been dry for forever, and Gamzee just won’t stop. Not until he’s satisfied.

Karkat hates it. He hates the way he lets Gamzee use him, the way he can’t let go of the other boy. The way he pathetically craves attention so hard that he’ll accept everything Gamzee throws at him, just for the few kind words he’ll say after. Or before. Or maybe even on a different day entirely. But he always has them. Those sweet words like poisoned fruit; sweet as he ate it, but slowly killing him from the inside.

“That was… motherfucking good,” Gamzee panted after he finally came. Karkat was too weak to respond. He laid on his bed, paralyzed, too weak to move. Gamzee flopped down next to him, smiling manically.

“Hey, motherfucking best friend.”

 _I stopped being that years ago, fuckass. Stop lying to me._

“I love you.”

 _You asshole._

Karkat felt the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, but he refused to let the bastard see him cry.

Because even if he knew the words were lies, they were better than the truth.

When he woke up in the morning, Gamzee was gone. Not that he had had expected anything else.

Karkat rose stiffly, his bruised muscles groaning as he forced his limbs to move. He shambled to the bathroom, gritting his teeth as every fiber of his body protested the movement. He gripped the edges of the dingy sink, bloodied knuckles going white in the effort to support his weight. He glared at himself in what shards of cracked mirror remained; he’d broken it long ago.

He had a scratch across his nose from Gamzee’s knife, and a plethora of bruises ranging from the deep purple of birth to the sickly yellow green of almost healed. Karkat sneered at his reflection, fighting the urge to break what remained of the glass. Instead, he opened the cabinet behind the mirror, taking what meager medical supplies he owned and tossing them into the bowl of the sink.

He sat on the yellow toilet as he attended to his wounds, stretching his supplies as far as he could. When he ran out, he stood, laboring his way back to his closet sized room. He picked clothes off the floor, not even bothering to see what they were. It’s not like any of them were clean anyways: two t-shirts, one gray hoodie and a battered pair of jeans. He’d fixed one of the holes in the knees by wrapping duck tape around it. The last thing he put on were his disintegrating tennis shoes, which were so old the brand (if there had ever been one) was indistinguishable.

It was a school day. Karkat wasn’t sure what time it was. The sky was bright gray, revealing nothing. The boy decided to fuck it.

He walked through the small, ramshackle hut that passed as a house in his neighborhood. The pain was receding to a dull throb across his whole body. He had to pass through the living room to get out. His dad was in a threadbare easy chair in front of the TV, the room littered with various beer cans and bottles.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he asked as Karkat walked by.

“None of your fucking business,” the boy replied.

“Fucking brat!” his dad yelled, and Karkat barely had time to duck out the door before getting hit with the beer bottle aimed at his head.

 _At least his aim fucking sucks._

Karkat made his way through the cracked, potholed streets. He kept his hands in his pockets and his head down. He passed chain links fences topped with barbed wire, mangy dogs fighting over road kill, a stop sign bent of shape and lying half in the grass of someone’s weed infested yard. He walked even as the first droplets of rain began pattering down, making his way deeper and deeper into the city.

As the heavens opened up, the boy reached the city’s nightlife – clubs with tacky neon signs, bars with half assed furnishing because it all got broken eventually. Karkat skirted a brawl which had poured into the street, spectators cheering on the already bruised and bloody fighters.

He kept moving, walking as if the world around him didn’t exist. In a way, it didn’t. It moved, people changed, while he kept doing the same stupid shit over and over, hating the fact that he couldn’t change a goddamn thing. Yeah, sometimes people pulled themselves up from the gutter, made a fucking life for themselves and lived happily fucking after.

There was a reason they called it a one in a million story.

Karkat came to squat, gray building. There was a purple neon sign above an underground entrance that read Club Seahorse in flitting cursive. The boy ignored it and the line at the door, instead escaping down a narrow side alley.

There was a rusty fire escape pressed into the side, and Karkat mounted it, climbing it like a ladder to the top. He pulled himself on to the roof, panting and soaked through.

He walked to the center of the roof, then stood.

He waited.


End file.
